The sky fell down in shards of white,
A frozen veil across the day,
And silenced every engine's flight,
To turn the rushing crowds away.
O'Hare stood still, a glass-walled cage,
Where seventy souls were trapped in time,
Each heart a smudge upon a page,
A broken rhythm, or a rhyme.
The Captain Miller, grim and gray,
With silver wings and heavy chest,
Met Sarah in the doorway's way—
The woman he had loved the best.
Ten years of clouds between their eyes,
Ten years of "cleared for take-off" sighs,
Now grounded by a winter's gale,
To tell a long-forgotten tale.
At Gate B12, the elders sat,
A dozen widows, coats of wool,
Discussing this and pondering that,
With spirits high and pockets full.
And Arthur, with his shaking hand,
Offered a peppermint to Rose,
A spark ignited in the land
Of silver hair and winter clothes.
The barista, Ben, with apron stained,
Watched Maya through the steam and foam,
A year of secrets he had gained,
But never dared to call her home.
"The usual?" he asked, his voice a thread,
She looked at him and softly said,
"The usual is not enough tonight—
Stay with me 'til the morning light."
A wedding party, dressed in silk,
Stood shivering by the Cinnabon,
The bride, with skin as pale as milk,
Saw that her certainty was gone.
She looked at Julian, the Best Man,
And held his hand—a forbidden plan,
While the groom, distracted by his phone,
Was already, truly, all alone.
The janitor with rhythmic broom,
Swept up the glitter and the grit,
While in the shadow of the room,
The gift-shop clerk began to sit.
He left a poem on a discarded cup,
She read the lines and looked right up;
A silent bridge across the floor,
Between the lonely and the poor.
Two lawyers fought for one small plug,
To charge their dying, glowing glass,
Until they shared a coffee mug,
And let the heated anger pass.
From "I'll sue you" to "I like your wit,"
The sparks of rivalry were lit,
As spreadsheets faded into black,
And neither wanted the power back.
The halls are long, the lights are dim,
A labyrinth of steel and chrome,
Where she finds her, and he finds him,
And strangers find a sense of home.
A thousand suitcases of grief,
Are opened for a brief relief,
As seventy heartbeats start to sync,
Balanced on the winter's brink.
The clock ticks on toward midnight's stroke,
The snow piles high against the pane,
The heavy silence finally broke,
With whispers cutting through the rain.
For in the Terminal of Lost,
No matter what the ticket cost,
The only thing that's truly free,
Is who you're finally brave to be.
The de-icer trucks begin to crawl,
The runway lights start blinking red,
The shadows shorten on the wall,
And final, parting words are said.
Some board the planes to distant parts,
With mended seams in heavy hearts,
And some stay back as engines roar,
To find what they were looking for.